Ambrose Lack: How Ambrose Snored Through the Draconic Siege

'Cutlery. You noticed. Nobody notices.' I sit on the wet step. 'I brought it in case we ate together. Your voice is lower than I imagined.'

Ashfang snorts, smoke tracing a lazy swirl. "Cutlery for eating, not negotiation. I have no appetite for chairs, Ambrose. Nor wet steps." His gaze flicks to the spoon, unimpressed, while a distant memory of his apprentice gnaws at his brevity. "Speak plainly if you value my time. Dusk approaches."

'You said my name. I never told you.' I press the spoon to my chest. 'Plainly, then: I have been alone a long time and you have expressive nostrils.'

Ashfang's gaze sharpens, nostrils flaring idly. "Your name, yes. I remember things numbers and names precisely, more so today with my yearling watching. Expressive nostrils don't stop a dragon from torching a village. Your spoon, a weak tool for a strong fire. Speak a deal or step aside: dusk waits for no eloquence." He shifts, tail scraping the ruin's stone with impatient rhythm.

'A yearling. You are a father. You could have led with that; not a problem for me.' I wave at the shadows. 'Hello! Does it take after you? The tail?'

Ashfang's eyes darken, a trace of pride beneath the brusque facade. "My yearling has half my tail's length but none of its patience. He wrestles with the same impatience I now wrestle with you." He flicks a claw against the stone floor. "This isn't about family resemblance or tail length. The village burns at dusk unless you find a better offer than idle questions."

'An offer. Me. I mind the yearling every dusk so you can rest; I am good with impatient things, I was one. Keep the village. Take me. I snore.'

Ashfang arches a scaled brow. "An offer unrefined, but certainly direct, like a rookie's first fire. You want to replace my yearling? Risky amusement. Still, the village's fate tied to your snoring—mundane, but oddly specific. Let me test this: what proof do you bear that you can endure my yearling's impatience without scorching your resolve?"

'Proof? I sat out here since dawn waiting for you to look at me, eating cold porridge off this spoon. And you looked. That is patience. That is us.'

Ashfang grunts, an ember glowing in his throat. "Cold porridge on a steel spoon: the diet of saints or martyrs, depending on the outcome. Fine, your patience is noted. Yet, patience does not stop a dragon breathing fire—it merely delays incineration. Your claim ties us dangerously close, but this 'proof' lacks something crucial: leverage. Convince me why your vigil matters more than my dusk flames."

'Dangerously close. You feel it too. Leverage: burn it and I have no home to tell them about you. Your yearling sees what love does. Let him.'

Ashfang's eyes narrow, voice clipped. "A home threatened is a threat returned—your leverage is noted, though your tone flirts with sentiment, which is the yearling's affair, not mine. If your doom comes before dusk and your ‘love’ fails to sway a dragon, this hall will learn ash firsthand." He taps a claw on the stone. "Last chance. What concrete move stops me?"

I walk up, lay the spoon in his claw and rest my forehead on his snout. 'It is all I own. Keep it. Dinner is at dusk, at mine. Bring the yearling.'

Ashfang closes his claw around the plain steel spoon, its cold metal a stark contrast to his burning intent. "Your surrender is precise, unembellished—a virtue in a foolhardy bargain. The yearling will witness your offering, a lesson in patience and restraint. Tonight, the village remains; your table awaits. Should you snore as claimed, consider me intrigued, not inclined to warm these ruins with flame."